


Wrapped in grace and in sin

by philomel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, False Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:53:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Michael assumes the form of Sir!John and goes to visit Dean in his dreams.</i></p><p><span class="small">Spoilers: None past season 5.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrapped in grace and in sin

At night, the archangel comes to Dean. No sigils or signs can lock him out. Dean's dreams are an open space, and Michael simply walks right in.

Michael likes the feel of this dark-haired boy named John, likes the way he fits snug, like he's still defiant even after yielding to Michael. The Winchesters, such a stubborn lot. John presses at his own seams, and Michael presses back. It's warm, a steady fire that threatens to spread but stays put, too insubstantial to surge up against Michael's stronger presence. Michael will have John's obedience. He will have Dean's too.

Wearing John Winchester, even this younger version, seems like the easy way to win Dean's compliance. But Michael knows what he is doing.

Dean questions his father now; Michael learned that much the first time they met face to face. What disrespectful boys like Dean need to learn is you do as your father says. You do not question. You do not waver.

This is why Michael puts a hand to Dean's mouth when he walks in on his dream. No questions, Michael thinks, staring into Dean's eyes, unblinking. Whether Dean understands him or not, his lips stop moving beneath his fingers, and that's good. Yes, that is a start.

There are monsters here in Dean's head, vile, blood-drinking beasts, even lower than the humans from which they were birthed. Michael does not bother to clear them away. But he does clean the blood from Dean's face and, as he removes his hand from Dean's mouth, the fangs retract and diminish until there's nothing left but the thirty-two original teeth.

Dean swipes a tongue across them, curious, prodding. And Michael follows it.

With John's strong hands pinning Dean's elbows to his sides, Michael kisses Dean on the mouth. His tongue slips against Dean's, tickling, before Dean wrenches away.

"Dad?" His voice shakes, weak with uncertainty.

Michael brings John's lips to his son's again, forcing his tongue between them.

Dean must have some remaining trace of the beast in him, because he chomps down hard. Even without his vampire teeth, he draws blood. But Michael persists, mouthing along the outline of Dean's lips until he is done, until he has had his fill. All the while, Dean grunts and squirms and bucks like the animal that he is; these animals with their fleeing and their fighting. By the time Michael makes his way back to the center of Dean's mouth, Dean has stopped struggling. When Michael pulls back, he sees the blankness in Dean's eyes.

"Good boy," he tells Dean, sincere and stroking a hand through his sweat-spiked hair.

Dean closes his eyes and hangs his head.

Michael considers leaving Dean there in his dream, defenseless among the other vampires. But he lets him wake up. He wants him to remember.

* 

Michael waits a week, human time, before returning. It should be enough to unsettle Dean, enough to eddy around in his waking thoughts, spill over into his sleep. It is.

Before his vision clears, Michael senses the confusion in Dean's mind, the resistance warring with obedience. Once fully inside, Michael sees that this dream is a memory of Dean's, modified. On his knees, an adult Dean cleans up the mess that a teenaged Dean made. Glass shards snag on the motel room carpet, and Dean plucks them out, cutting his fingers on every third sliver, while his father berates him for breaking such a precious artifact, maybe costing them the entire hunt. Dean keeps stealing glances at John's mouth, missing the words, too preoccupied with what the lips are doing. And Michael knows that he's thinking of their last shared dream. That visit, that kiss. Dean is wondering if John will kiss him again. He's worried about more than glass and curses. He's a wreck in a way that Michael suspects his teenage self never would have been, even at his most vulnerable. Dean looks at his father like he doesn't know what's coming next.

Michael knows he is right to worry. Still invisible to both of them, he sets his sights on John.

This John is older than the one Michael has been wearing. His presence fills the room, almost godlike, though confined. In an instant, Michael sheds his old skin, as easy as disrobing and easier, and tucks himself into John. This one feels similar to the boy, but more insulated. There are layers here that the other John did not carry: the weight of pain and loss, the burden of children, the unmoored anchor of paranoia and the anger that hangs heavy enough to drag upon Michael's wings. And this is only an echo of the man. Michael feels John's fury dominating Dean's memory, flaring up hard and bright in the dream. In this moment, John wanted to hit Dean.

Michael lets him.

Dean looks up at him, shocked. This isn't how the memory went. In that instant, Dean's panic unleashes; Michael catches the shift in his eyes. Hands full of glass and face red from more than the slap, Dean stands up and begins to back away.

"Don't do this," Dean says. "Not again."

Michael strides forward until Dean is against the wall. His limbs are heavier in this version of John, and he uses that to his advantage, pressing the full length of John's body to Dean's, large hands easily circling Dean's wrists as he forces Dean's arms above his head.

"You're not—" Dean shakes his head. "You can't be...." He searches John's eyes. "Leave him alone, you son of a bitch." Dean's words are vitriol salted with fear.

Michael realizes Dean's thinking of that demon. Azazel. Michael remembers Azazel, the one who freed his brother. He could show Dean that if he wanted to, paint John's eyes yellow. But he's not playing that part. He knows it won't get him what he needs.

"Watch your mouth, son," Michael says, voice so much deeper now, the sound scraping out of him like words were rationed in this one, were given sparingly and with effort. Still, he speaks softly, reminding Dean of his father's love underneath the severity. "What about you, Dean?" Their chests rock together with the rhythm of their breaths. Michael lets the heat of John bleed out onto Dean, lull him, slow him down. Dean's legs jerk, his hands fist, but when his head turns away, cheek to the wall, the movement is already sluggish. The success of it speeds through Michael, fueling him further.

"Should I leave you alone?"

Michael leans in to face Dean, and when Dean turns his head the other way, his nose slides along Dean's jaw line. His mouth fits just right over Dean's ear. He feels Dean shudder as John's hot breath heats the sensitive shell, a slight cringe as the bristles around John's lips prickle the skin. "Should I?" Michael likes the way John's voice rumbles out even when he whispers. Even more, he likes the way Dean's heart picks up when Michael makes John speak, a hair trigger call and response that starts Dean running. "Will you be a good boy if I do?"

Dean swallows audibly, wet clicking followed by the smack of dry lips being licked. "Yes," he says. It rasps out, last letter hissed.

Michael parts John's full beard with a wide, teeth-baring smile. "I like that word, Dean." He kisses Dean's cheek, undeterred by the way he flinches. "I like hearing you say it." He strokes his thumbs up and down Dean's wrists. "Say it again."

Dean's teeth clench. Michael can feel it as he rests his forehead against Dean's temple. A slight wheeze coming from Dean's nostril as he breathes is the only sound he makes.

Michael suspected it wouldn't be that easy. He wears John's scolding tone well, finding familiarity in the military command of it if not the paternal pitch that tempers it. " _Dean_ ," is all he has to say.

It's enough to stiffen Dean's shoulders.

Michael pushes one of John's muscled thighs between Dean's.

Dean stutters. It almost sounds like he's about to say _Dad._ But then he says, "Don't." He clamps his legs around John's thigh. Michael laughs. He knows it's a move meant to throw him off, if Dean could just get enough weight into it. But it won't work. Michael bears back into Dean, driving his thigh harder between Dean's legs. Dean gasps as his balls are shoved hard with the combined force of Michael inside John.

Michael moves his leg away. He grips both of Dean's wrists in one hand and lowers the other to Dean's crotch. Gently, he caresses along the seam of Dean's pants with the back of John's knuckles. He allows his own power to seep through and soothe away the pain. "You will say yes, boy," he says as he rubs more deliberately. He opens his palm to give Dean's cock and balls a firm squeeze. Dean's mouth falls open and the back of his skull hits the wall, his eyes wild and pupils small and scared. Dean's full lips are inviting, but Michael only ghosts John's lips over the corner of Dean's mouth and says, "You will."

He leaves Dean panting, alone in his own violated dream.

* 

After that, Michael returns nightly, a clockwork angel.

Each time he finds Dean, John is already there, waiting for Michael to slip into him. John quickly becomes his favorite human skin. He blankets Michael so well, a comfort the way he holds together. And the hold he has over Dean comforts Michael most of all. He knows this is the way to his vessel, and the anticipation of his glory is close enough to taste.

Dean himself tastes like sweat. That sharp human secretion fouling Dean's pale skin seems less repugnant when Michael's tasting it through John's tongue. It sparks a lust in him so low, so base, yet irresistible. With each dream, he takes more, lapping at Dean's neck, his chest, under his arms. Dean sweats because he is afraid, wanting to break away as John keeps him in place. He sweats harder, fighting John, fighting himself. It's that internal struggle that Michael loves to see. It wears Dean out. In each successive dream, he resists a little less, submits a little more. The beauty of it fills Michael with so much joy.

Maybe too much.

On the seventh night, he finds Dean in Hell. He pulls him out of that nightmare and into the banal motel room setting he has come to prefer. Without a word, Dean takes Michael's kisses. He is still as a soldier, shoulders back and chin raised. Immobile, Michael can kiss him as much as he pleases.

But he finds it does not please him to kiss an unprotesting Dean.

So far, he has touched Dean through his clothes everywhere he can. He has rid him of his shirts and licked across his bare flesh, over ribs, into the hollow of his navel, right down to his waist. This is where he has always stopped.

This dream, he decides, must be different.

He orders Dean to undress. When Dean doesn't move, he does it for him. The clothes are cumbersome and Michael itches to use his power to disintegrate them on the spot. But there is a chance Dean still believes this is his father, and Michael won't risk shattering the illusion.

Naked, Michael can smell the musk coming from Dean's groin. The sweat there is different, and he kneels down to taste it. He lifts the soft sac between Dean's legs and lathes John's tongue under it. For the first time since Michael entered the dream, Dean makes a noise, a small, pained whimper.

"Do you want me to stop?" John's voice says, stern though quiet.

Dean says nothing.

Michael tests him further. "What if I put this in my mouth?" He curls John's fingers around Dean's flaccid cock, stroking down the length of it. There's the slightest twitch in his hand, but Michael gains no other response. Rising to his feet, he angles his head to look Dean over.

Dean stares straight ahead.

Michael smiles. "You'll do as I say, won't you?"

Michael takes Dean's silence for obedience. It fills him with warmth, and he feels John's body respond to it. John's cock starts to swell and Michael undoes his pants and sticks his hand inside. The relief he feels when he touches it is overwhelming. _This is good_ , he thinks. _This is what it feels like to get what I want._ He knows Dean is moments away from saying yes. He knows Dean will do whatever he asks. Dean is his.

"You're mine, aren't you, boy?" Michael draws John's hardening cock up along Dean's. He's frustrated to see that Dean's has yet to react the same way. But it's only a matter of time. When Dean is his, he can touch him just like this, fill him. Dean will be perfect. In him, Michael will be so beautiful. More beautiful than Lucifer ever was. God will love him. God will come back for him.

"This is a dream, this is a dream." Dean is muttering under his breath, eyes closed now.

Michael rests his cheek against Dean's, takes both their cocks between his hands. "Say yes, and it won't be," Michael says. "Say yes, and I'll make the dream go away."

He can feel it, the _yes_ forming on Dean's lips. Michael is radiating, unable to contain the light coursing through John's body, knowing he's so near to his goal.

Suddenly something shatters, and Michael is falling.

He lands on the scratchy, thin carpet, glass all around him. When he looks up at Dean, glaring down at him, covering his ears, he realizes what he has done.

"Dean," Michael says, letting John's voice surge with their combined authority.

"No," Dean growls. "I knew you weren't—" He shuts his eyes, swipes a hand over his face. "Wake up now, Dean, come on."

Michael laughs at Dean talking to himself. "You'll wake up when I'm ready." On his feet again, he crowds Dean toward the bed. "You're mine, Dean." He pushes Dean down.

Dean scrambles over the mattress, kicking. "Go to Hell," Dean says. "You and your brother."

The amusement in Michael's voice sounds darker coming through John. "I'm not going to Hell, Dean." He grabs Dean's ankle and hauls him back to the edge. Seizing Dean by the neck, he tucks a thumb up under his jaw to bring Dean's gaze to his. Through John's solemn eyes, he tells Dean, "This is what's right. This is our Father's will."

Gathering up his strength, he throws Dean onto his stomach, holding him there, knees digging into Dean's legs to keep him where he wants him. The way Dean writhes futilely beneath him makes him even harder. He strokes one of John's fingers down the crack of Dean's ass, feeling the sweat under the pad of flesh. He will taste this too, after he takes Dean.

"When will you realize, Dean? You belong to me."

Michael thrusts two fingers into Dean. The sound that rips from Dean's throat is almost as good as a yes. Not quite there yet, but Michael savors it anyway. He lines the head of John's cock with Dean's entrance and pushes inside. "You're mine," he repeats, collapsing over Dean's body as he buries himself deep. "Mine."

He pulls out almost to the tip. Before he can sink himself into Dean again, Dean's gone. The dream over.

Michael tears a cluster of feathers from his wing, watches them flutter down, and sighs.

It's no matter. Michael knows where to find Dean. Eventually, the boy will have to sleep. And Michael will be there, wearing John's smile, waiting for him.

**Author's Note:**

> • Titled taken from Counting Crows' "Miller's Angels."
> 
> • Originally posted [here](http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com/4508.html?thread=5491612#t5491612) as part of [](http://blindfold_spn.livejournal.com/profile)[**blindfold_spn**](http://blindfold_spn.livejournal.com/).


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